Tracks to Clementine

12/22 at 12:22pm

Who can (or wants) to type with a sweet little daughter on her chest?

More info here.

Guess Who's Here?

Wrong.

It's the roofers!

(Unless you guessed the roofers and then you are totally right. Your prize is the distinct absence of any hammeringyammeringclammoringslammoring right above your head. And my respect.)

Also here: all of the other babies that we knew were expected in December. Apparently, this kid is all "you guys go first, I don't mind."

Sometimes I Wonder

The baby did not arrive yesterday, but this did:

She's just about to close up the library!

It's getting all Christmas-y around here, due in no small part to the bitchin' tunes the roofers are playing whilst stapling shingles to the roof.

Nah, it's not the tunes at all, even though I did just hear a lyric that said something about the "sweet, dark night." But the roofers are still linked to Christmas because whenever I turn my head to look out the window at the shingling work I see instead our sweet little Christmas tree.

Did you think I was going to say "sweet little baby?" And then I so didn't. Because I'm still pregnant. And I really hope I never use the phrase "sweet little Christmas tree" to mean our baby or that I become so tired of being pregnant that I just start dressing things up in baby clothes like, um, that dog who carried the boot around in the book Scruffy.

Back to Christmas: it smells great in our apartment. One major benefit of living in a small place is that the wafting of pine needles reaches everywhere and makes for all kinds of grinning. Oh, man, I love it!

We purchased the tree yesterday after having brunch with E. and SCN (which was great as always and featured some songs from Pete's Dragon) and prior to watching It's a Wonderful Life at Grand Illusion with same. Tears all around.

I have to say, those are really good things to do in general as well as making fine distractions from wondering when labor will kick in.

In other baby news, today we are going in for a non-stress test to make sure everything is proceeding apace (and there are no signs that it shouldn't be). Yay, a job! Related to the baby!

And maybe tomorrow I'll get some acupuncture.

That is, if these non-progressing contractions I've been having since 4am remain as such instead of becoming, y'know, progressing contractions.

12 Hours?

Big plans for today: go out and about with husband and find a little Christmas tree.

Oh, and maybe have a baby. But we could also do that tomorrow or the next day. Whenever.

Ridiculous decision that is proving to be the most difficult to me? When to take a shower. Like, if I go take a shower right now, what if I go into labor in the next couple of hours and want to take another shower? That seems on the wasteful side where water is concerned. Shouldn't I concentrate the showers into one really great and satisfying shower while coping with early labor pain?

...or do you think that might result in me not showering for the next two weeks?

When I was in second grade, the PUD held a poster contest for water conservation. I came in second place--shiny red ribbon and everything--for my depiction of a filthy person a la Shel Silverstein and a caption that read something like "I can't take a shower: I'm conserving water!"

Okay, I probably did not incorporate a colon, but that was indeed my whole plan: don't bathe. I remember thinking I was being pretty darn funny and also being pretty darn surprised when I won (okay, second place), especially since my entire class and probably all second graders in the town did drawings that were more "Save the Whales" oriented. I like to imagine the guy over at the PUD who was rooting for my drawing doing so by guffawing and pointing because, man, that guy must have really been all in sync with my seven-year-old sense of humor...which, admittedly, has not changed all that much.

Second grade was also the year that I wrote the fine blank verse poem "Christmas Mouse" about a mouse that died and a story called "Santa's Itchy Socks" in which it was discovered that his socks itched because they were made of salt.

What wack-a-doo things will my own kid do? I cannot wait to find out.

But I will wait. But only because I have to.

Plus, babies can't do anything...except make you want to EAT THEM.

Dear baby,

more love than I can even imagine,
your MOTHER

Tomorrow?

One more day until the due date...but, y'know, whatever.

I mean, I would very much like to meet this kiddo, but I'm not going to hold my breath (baby needs oxygen and so do I) or, um, y'know, be shocked if the baby doesn't arrive before midnight on the Ides of December.

I keep talking to the baby and describing all the nice things in our house and outside, but I don't think it understands a word I'm saying. I really like doing it...it's kind of a little game to see how long I can talk to the baby before I start to cry because I'm so happy and incredulous that this baby I'm talking to is real and will soon be even moreso in an even more unbelievable way. C'mon, Squirmus!

I have various tasks spread around the house so I don't end up just sitting and waiting...like, how the bag to take to the birth center is in the living room with all of its to-be contents stacked on top and around it but is not actually packed. Or how our birth plan is in cryptic longhand but not typed up and printed out.

...or how I still haven't finished that work-related paperwork...

I have completed the morning rituals of waving to the roofers and taking down all the art.

Time to move on to a mid-morning snack. Today's selection will feature blueberry yogurt.

Oooo: big kicks and squirms! What are you trying to tell me, baby? (E. was over for dinner the other night and had her hand on my belly and yelped at one point because the baby moved so much. It was satisfying.)

Catapult

Yes, an actual catapult. Turns out the sound I identified as caber tossing was packages of shingles being catapulted onto the roof.

WHAM!

No ziplines or boiling oil, though.

...yet...

Pitchfork

No, not the band or even the music site, you city slickers, but the implement with which the roofers are chucking mossy shingles onto the unsuspecting heads of sidewalkers below. Seriously, I just saw one worker pry shingles off and huck it backwards over his head. It was kind of glorious.

WHOA. LOUD NOISES AND RUNNING.

Some of the running was me: I just made a mad dash into the kitchen to take the mugs down from the mug hooks and earthquake proof the cupboard with the wine glasses...all whilst calling Yellow Dog to say "LISTEN TO THIS!!!!"

It's either actual roofwork or there's caber toss practice going on up there. Say, maybe with kilts! Maybe I'd better go up to the deck and check it out. Stay tuned!

Okay. The angle was entirely wrong from the deck and all I could see were the two other houses that are also experiencing roof work. And now I think I've used up all of my enthusiasm for this project and am going to address thank you card envelopes.

Quietly.

(Incidentally, Yellow Dog has warned me not to run off with any of the attractive Latino workers. He told me to tell them I was already pregnant. Except, that's just what I heard. I don't remember what he actually said, but my version will possibly work better. I am a sucker for machismo. It's making me blush right now.)

Five Days

Word has it that everybody at Yellow Dog's work keeps being surprised when he walks in each morning. Not because he's tends to no-show, but because they think surely today will be the day he's off for paternity leave. People, people, let's at least wait until the due date hits to try to get rid of him!

My biggest hope for the next five days? That the roofing work that properly began today (scaffolding went up nearly two weeks ago) will be finished. They're not working directly over my head yet so it's not all that bad, but we'll just see. Luckily, it pretty much sounds like regular hammering and pounding noises, so here's a big thank you to years of set building and tech weeks causing these sounds to be familiar. So far only the liquor bottles have been rattled and not my nerves.

If they don't finish in the next five days (or before the baby's born, really) then, well, we'll see. I have a sneaking suspicion that Yellow Dog and I will be bothered far more by the sounds than the baby will. And maybe we'll be too busy staring dreamily into the each other's eyes to even notice the clomping and banging and shouting.

...nah, we're far too accomplished at complaining to give up just for The Miracle of Life.

Can You Tell I'm Spending More Time at Home?

I made the phone call: left a message. My mom emailed me today and gave me the ICU update; he's recovering and doing well even though his heart was in worse shape than they thought. Now he's got one repaired valve and one pig valve. And he had another bypass! (His last bypass was a quadruple one in, like, 1986.) Go, sturdy Grandfather!

In other family news, we made this to keep our families in the know...

...all titles and colors subject to change because hrmph.

Caution in Moderation

One of Yellow Dog's aunts just sent us this book:

That font means business, let me tell you! I can't decide if it's more Motley Crue or Munsters. What I have decided is that it is so finger-shakingly full of NEVER DO THIS advice that I am inclined towards behavior opposite of that which it suggests. It does contain some useful information, but it's almost impossible to read it thoughtfully without, say, an entire salt lick for balancing purposes. Plus, it was written 13 years ago. Sure, sure, that's not all that long, but information regarding child safety changes on at least a yearly basis and that Chinese takeout font is forever. Luckily, this book is on loan; we have to return it. The question is...how quickly can we return it and still have it seem like we read it with fervor?

In other cautionary news, I need to call my grandparents but am nervous about it because my grandfather had surgery today. Surgery that he was supposed to have months ago but kept having to delay because he either had a stroke or a cold (both of these things happened; it's not that I can't remember). Oh, what type of surgery? The type where one of his own heart valves is replaced with that of a pig heart valve, that's what kind. Pretty darn interesting and medically effective, but there is a chance that he could die. (Granted, he is nearly 83-years-old so that possibility is there with almost anything.) I feel like everything is probably fine, but I'm a little apprehensive about calling their house--even though I'm likely to get the answering machine--and finding out that the surgery was unsuccessful.

I was talking to my mother about this and she's clearly feeling much better about it than she was a few weeks ago because she calmly said "but you're having a baby, so if he does die then there's a new life and it all balances out."

Sure, sure, but, as I replied "I'm still planning on having this kid if and when he survives the surgery."

In further proof that my mother is doing better she said "Well, in that case he'll just have to lose some weight."

I'm always surprised when this side of my mother's humor surfaces because it is not her way. I do believe this guy has helped her cultivate it.

Okay. I'm ready. Time to cultivate a long distance phone call and reap some medical information.

10 Days

Until the Due Date. Mathematically, that is. Mystical biology knows no time. Or something like that.

See also: during the last conversation I had with my father, he asked me about episiotomies. Like this: "What about, when they cut?"

And then we had a chat about how I don't want one at all and how my midwife pretty much doesn't do them and processes to avoid one. I think he was worried about me. I think.

I am only worried about our apartment. Is it ready yet? No. (And my paperwork isn't done, either, so back off or come do it for me.) It is starting to look pretty great, though. Like, I try to take a nap but then keep opening up my eyes because I get ideas of what to do next. And I have difficulty working on one thing at a time because whenever I get started on something I invariably have to take a bathroom break and that means I go past all of the other rooms and get distracted by all the other things I have to do and then I do a little bit of that and the other that and then this thing and then work on the original thing, which I'm pretty sure was writing giant runon sentences.

Which brings me to: how can you tell if behavior is pregnancy-related or just your regular personality? Well, I'll tell you what I've noticed:

Prior to being pregnant, I had regular food cravings and peculiarities so that didn't change much. What did change was how well I could taste the food and that spicy food tasted even spicier. Of course, I never remember that spicy food tastes spicier to me, so whenever I eat I end up crying and laughing and wondering when I'll forget again.

Prior to being pregnant, I was very focused but also easily distracted (see also ASS). This has not changed with being pregnant. I don't think any of the house cleaning and arranging I'm doing has to do with nesting. If it turns manic I'll think differently, but right now it's all arranging yarn by color and books by genre and author. (Except I didn't do that last part. I usually do, so let that be proof to all that I am actually taking it easy and that there are some things I'm willing to let go for the time being. But don't mess with the crafts/office supply closet because it is an organized WONDER. Do feel free to use up anything you like, however, because we could outfit a convention. You choose the topic.)

Prior to being pregnant I would not get out of bed in the middle of the night. Now I get up all of the freaking time. I am not a fan. I truly believe that once in bed it is my job to stay in bed. I will not be troubled by regular waking once the baby is born (duh, of course I'll be tired and perhaps delusional) because it will be for a whole 'nother person. Getting up just because I have to go to the bathroom is irksome. In fact, when I was visiting my mother in France she said that even though I'd told her I was pregnant, she knew it for a fact when she heard me get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Seriously, I once convinced my grandmother that, even though the fire alarm to her building was going off loudly, we could stay put because if we actually needed to leave we'd smell smoke or the firemen would come and get us.

What kind of grandmother lets her 18-year-old granddaughter do that type of convincing? The same kind my mother sent home when one of my brothers was born because she was no help.

Something that is absolutely different about being pregnant (besides how freaking amazing and fascinating it is that there is human baby inside of me): man, am I a mood ball! After one of our birthing classes (which have been over for two weeks, thank god, because I did not like them) I cried on the street for at least ten minutes. Yellow Dog stood there with me and held me and was nice and comforting while I sobbed and sobbed. Internally, I was laughing because I was imagining that the scene looked like this total douche was breaking up with his pregnant girlfriend. Unlikely, but HILARIOUS! I also cried when that same kind Yellow Dog brought home dark chocolate Hershey's kisses instead of the regular kind for the Mrs. Santa Claus my mother made in the '80s. And I cried when my sister and I went to see Robyn Hitchcock because I became so lovingly overwhelmed at how artful this kid's life is going to be, especially because SCN was singing with Mr. Hitchcock and it was just so small world I couldn't take it. Does it matter that the song was Queen Elvis?

And those are just a meager few of the tearful stories. There's also been some pretty amazing firey fireball angry frustration, but I'm pretty good at noticing when that is coming on and do things like leave the room for awhile or take Rescue Remedy or at least give fair warnings that if one more something happens that I will explode into an actual Fury. I have not yet exploded and have managed to deal with it--which is less impressive when I reveal that yelling freaks me the fuck out so I try really hard to let myself feel angry without hitting the uncontrollable part. This too shall pass or some junk. (I think I have been better about this whilst pregnant than past history would note.)

This has been quite long and rambly, so let me conclude by saying that my eyebrows and eyelashes look fantastic thanks to spa treatments. Like, you'd never know I'm getting no sleep because waxing and tinting (with vegetable dye) make for one bright-eyed gal.

Note: this post would read entirely the opposite were I posting it at, say, 10pm. Then it'd be all "owmylegsowmylegsowmylegslookatthefreakingveinsinmyhandsgodquitpunchingmycervixyeeeeowwwwwwcchhhhh!!!!!"